


4 times Joan visits Marcus and 1 time she doesn't

by rubberglue



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberglue/pseuds/rubberglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for episode 2x10. </p><p>Joan and Marcus find that they have more in common than they thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I.

When he doesn’t pick up her calls or replies to her messages, she finds herself standing outside of his door, holding a tiffin carrier and a bag of fruits. Sherlock is the chef at home, not her. A salad is about as much as her cooking skills extends to and even then, Sherlock is quick to comment about the irregularity of her carrot slices. Thankfully, her sister-in-law was more than willing to help when asked.

She has lingered out in the corridor long enough so she raises her hand and raps sharply on his door. It takes a while but she hears movement, then the turn of a lock. 

“Watson,” Bell pulls the door open further and steps aside. She takes that as an invite and steps in, glancing at his face but she can’t read it. His right arm hangs at his side and while it looks no different from his left, Joan is painfully aware “Is that for me?”

“I hope you haven’t had dinner.” She walks to his state-of-the-art kitchen and carefully places the tiffin carrier on the marble counter. On first look, it’s as immaculate as his table in the precinct but Joan notices the tiny stain that isn’t completely wiped away, the crumbs at the edge and the can opener that isn’t hung quite as straight. Her heart clenches at the evidence of his injury.

Bell has moved to the other side of the counter and watches her. His face is still a mask. “No, I haven’t had dinner.” There’s an edge to his voice but she ignores it. It’s not about her.

“Great. I hope you like Chinese because I cooked this with my own two hands.” A ghost of a smile crosses her face. “Me and my sister in law. Mainly, I chopped.”

Finally Bell reacts. His lips quirk slightly as he says, “Good to know. Don’t think I could handle food poisoning on top of everything else.”

Joan’s smile widens slightly. “Why didn’t you let us know you were discharged?”

“I’m fine. I should have known your friend - what’s her name – told you.”

“Kavitha.” She flushes, slightly embarrassed at being caught asking her friend to keep an eye on Bell. “Sorry.”

He waves his left arm. “It’s fine. You were just concerned. I was slightly curious when this unknown doctor took a sudden interest in me. I thought it was my charm and looks, then I learnt you two worked together before.” 

“How is the arm?” 

“The same.” He lifts it slightly, experimentally then grimaces at her. Their eyes meet and she knows Bell knows. She knows what it’s like to be at that point when the whole life you’ve worked towards crumbling because of one moment, one mistake. “So, what’s for dinner?”

Joan welcomes Bell’s attempt to change the subject. Somehow, in that moment, something had shifted and there was far too much understanding, too much intimacy. So, she tells him about what she cooked, about how the ginseng and the ginger in the food might be pungent but are good for nerve damage, about how it’s been years since she’s boiled herbal soup and how her sister-in-law was insistent they cook the broth from scratch. 

“I’ll wash up,” says Bell as he grabs his plate and stands. “You cooked.”

Her first instinct is to say no, but she stops herself. “Thanks,” she says instead. “I’ll help you dry.”

They work well together, him washing and her drying. It’s not fast, not when he’s only using one arm, but it’s comfortable. 

“Thanks,” he says when he walks her to the door. “It was good to have company. And the dinner wasn’t too bad either. Ginseng though,” he signs and shakes his head. “I never want to eat that again.”

“Maybe I can come over again,” she suggests, slightly surprised that it isn’t just concern that’s motivating her.

He doesn’t answer immediately and she moves to leave. Then she hears him say quietly, “I’ll like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

His phone vibrates and he whips it out of his pocket, jerking his shoulder to adjust the strap of the bag on his shoulder.

_Dinner?_

Marcus smiles as he texts a reply. _Ok. No soup._

It’s amazing how quickly he’s learnt to text with his left hand and yet he can’t seem to unlock his door with the same ease. He drops his bag onto the sofa before sinking into it himself. On the coffee table in front of him, the therapy putty stares back at him. He throws a newspaper over it, then closes his eyes. Even then he hears his therapist’s voice, calm, confident, assuring him that he’s been making progress over the past week. It doesn’t feel that way. He still cannot hold anything making his hand useless, making him – he stopped his thoughts. Watson had said something about depressive thinking styles and he is determined to avoid it. But it is difficult. If he doesn’t pay attention to his thoughts, it is easy for them to slide into a deep, dark abyss where he can’t see any light. 

He sighs and gets up from the sofa. Better grab a shower before Watson arrives. He smiles at the thought – he looks forward to her visits. It isn’t that he is starved for company – his buddies from the precinct and the few close friends he retained from his childhood popped over now and then, wearing bright smiles and unending optimism. Gregson too comes by, assuring him his job will be waiting for him when he’s ready. And there’s his brother. At least one good thing has come out of it – Andre can finally look after him the way he’s always wanted to. Not that it didn’t chafe at Marcus at first that he needed Andre to help him, but he got over it. The problem is, none of them understand, not the way Watson does.

The doorbell rings just as he steps out of the shower. It would take him far too long to pull on clothes, so he wraps the towel around his hips tighter and rushes to the door. 

“Oh,” says Watson. Marcus has no idea what that means. Her face is inscrutable and he might be imaging the hint of pink in her cheeks. Yellow lights are terrible.

“Sorry,” he says as he makes his way back to his bedroom. “Make yourself at home,” he tosses out over his shoulder. Behind him, he can hear Watson close the door, then the rustling of paper bags as she takes out the takeaway she brought. He hopes it’s burger. He also hopes she hasn’t brought yet another one of those awful herbal tonics.

When he finally emerges fully dressed from his bedroom, he can smell dinner. There’s no strange herbal smell, so he relaxes a little. He’s all for the saying, ‘no pain no gain’ but really, Chinese herbs are something else. 

“You know,” Marcus says as he slowly lines up the Jenga bricks, “it’s unfair challenging an injured man to this.”

Her laugh is light. “I asked you what we could do, and you suggested this. Are you angling for a handicap?” The moment the word leaves her mouth, her expression changes. 

“Don’t,” he says before she can take back her words. “Don’t wrap me in cotton wool. I’ve enough people doing that. Ignoring my arm isn’t going to make anything better.”

“Sorry.” Watson gestures to the Jenga tower. “Shall we? I plan to avenge my loss on Wednesday.”

Laughing, Marcus gingerly pulls out a brick. “You’d be disappointed then. I’ve been practising. Going to keep the winning streak going.”

Her arm brushes against his as she leans over the table to make her move. “You’re not the only one who has been practising.”

“I thought you didn’t have your own set.”

“Now I do,” Watson says nonchalantly, before easily sliding out a brick with her left hand.

“It occurs to me that being a surgeon previously, you might have steadier hands than me. Another advantage. This really is an unfair match.”

Watson slants him an amused look before removing another brick. “I’m not the one who declared himself King of Jenga.”

The brick tower collapses just as Watson eases a brick out and she swears under her breath as Marcus laughs. “Well, guess I retain the title.”

“Not for long,” she shoots back with a grin. “Don’t underestimate my determination.”

“Guess you need to come over for a rematch then. Let me get dinner the next time.”

“Sure.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is AU by 2x13, kind of. Lots of thanks to everyone on tumblr who discusses Joan - I think I cribbed a lot of ideas about who she is from their discussions.

Marcus’s mood has taken a turn for the worse in recent weeks and Joan is pretty sure that it has something to do with his recent visit to the doctor. She had volunteered to go with him but he’d declined with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. 

“I know you’ve been spending time with Detective Bell,” sniffs Sherlock one evening. “Is he well?”

“You see him at the precinct. Ask him yourself.”

Sherlock shrugs like he doesn’t care, grabs the doll he left on the kitchen table and leaves. Joan rolls her eyes but even as she tries to concentrate on the newspaper in front of her, her mind drifts to Marcus. He’s cancelled on her twice already and part of her wants to force a confrontation. Another part of her, the part that was a sober companion, held her back. 

Eventually, she throws the paper down, annoyed that once again, she cares more for someone than they seem to care for her. It’s a problem her friend Emily has, not so subtly, pointed out more than once. It’s not that she drags out such relationships – she has lines – but she seems to fall into them easily. She switches on her laptop with a sigh and logs on to True Romantix. Maybe she will find someone here, someone who doesn’t just see her as a support system but as a person.

Her jogging route the next day for some reason takes her to Marcus’s apartment.

“Joan.” Marcus opens the door, then steps aside for her to enter. “I didn’t know you were coming over today.” He glances at his watch. “At 8am in the morning.”

She smiles and lifts the bag of donuts she bought. “I brought breakfast.”

“Donuts?” Marcus finally cracks a smile as he takes the bag from her. “It’s a little clichéd, don’t you think?”

Shaking her head, she perches on a stool at his kitchen, watching as he makes the requisite coffee to go with the donuts. Her eyes drift to his hand, noting that the tremors aren’t as visible as they were before, but she says nothing. Breakfast is a light-hearted affair, they banter over baseball and basketball, talk about Marcus’s new idea to get a pet – a large dog, and discuss the recent weather headlines. And when Marcus leans over, uses his right hand to wipe off the powdered sugar that somehow found its way to her cheek, she ignores the shiver that goes through her and instead focuses on the fact that his hand barely trembles.

When he lifts his coffee with his right hand, she finally comments. 

The mood in the kitchen plummets immediately. 

"Yeah, I saw the doctor." He stares down at the kitchen counter and draws patterns with his fingers. "She still has no answers. But she doesn't need to say it - my recovery has plateaued." Marcus raises his eyes to hers. "And I still can't hold a gun steady."

She wants to assure him it'll get better, tell him it's just a matter of time, but she knows they are just empty words. Not everyone gets better. 

"What are your plans?" She asks gently. 

His eyes slide from hers again. "Demographics."

"What?" 

"They offered me a job - an analyst position."

Joan is pretty sure her eyebrows have shot off her face. "Demographics? The department that basically invades our privacy on the pretext of national security?"

"It's not like that -"

"Look, Marcus. There has to be better choices out there - other departments. IAB maybe."

He stands, his anger palpable. "You're not in the position to judge me. After what your partner did, my career as a detective is over. So don't tell me what I should or should not do."

"Are you blaming what Sherlock did on me?" She is standing too. 

"You're his sober companion!"

"Was! And I'm not his keeper." She grabs her bag from the kitchen counter. "I don't need this from you. I've been your friend through this, and -" She shakes her head, the familiar memory of her mother warning her not to make a fuss nagging at her, then walks to the door. 

"Joan."

She stops but doesn't turn from the door.

"I'm sorry. That was low." He's closer to her now. "I'm sorry."

With a sigh, she turns around. "You and Sherlock have issues but it doesn't involve me."

"You're right. It doesn't and I shouldn't be taking out my frustration on you. You've been a good friend. Really." A smile ghosts his face. "One of the best I've had."

That makes her smile. 

"As for me joining Demographics - it's better than pushing paper at the station. At least I'd be useful."

Her smile fades. "Ok."

He touches her arm. "Are we alright?"

"I hope so." She looks at Marcus’s face, the slight pleading that’s obvious in his eyes. Her bag drops to the floor. “How about a game of Jenga?”

A grin slowly grows on his face. “You know you’re going to lose right?”


	4. Chapter 4

The game is getting exciting but Marcus is finding it difficult to concentrate. He’s not sure if it’s because he’s just turned in his resignation from Demographics, the confrontation with Sherlock or the fact that Joan is out on yet another one of her True Romantix dates. 

He curls his fingers around his mug and watches as his hand trembles slightly as he raises the mug to his lips. Faith, he thinks almost scathingly. As if that was enough to overcome everything. Maybe it was when you were white, born into money and far more intelligent than most others. 

The first knock, he thinks he imagined. He isn’t expecting anyone. His brother isn't in town and his friends have more sense than to just turn up without notice. The second knock is more insistent and Marcus leaves the comfort of his sofa grudgingly.

A peek through the peep hole tells him it’s Joan. Joan, dressed in a soft blue dress that flared at her waist, her hair tied up, highlighting her cheekbones and make-up that had been delicately applied. Lingering at the door, he allows himself a moment to admire her. He sees her often enough, yet her attractiveness still takes him by surprise sometimes.

He pulls open the door, leaning against the door jamb as casually as he could. "Joan. I thought you were on a date."

The roll of her eyes isn't unexpected and he bites down on a smile. "I was but it turned out that he was a bit of a liar." She peers around his door. "You're not busy, are you?"

He gestures for her to enter, then follows her into his living room. "You might want to switch off that deductive brain of yours when you go on dates. Just a suggestion." He laughs at her withering glare. "Coffee?"

"No thanks. How's the game?"

Marcus shrugs, dropping onto the sofa next to her. "The score suggests that I am going to be out of $10 tomorrow. Although, seeing that I've resigned from Demographics, I might be able to get away with not paying up."

"You quit Demographics?"

"Yup. You were right. The fit wasn't right."

Joan simply raises an eyebrow. "This wouldn't have anything to do with Sherlock's rant at you or the fact that your boss was dirty?"

"The latter definitely. Also, the whole department just rubbed me the wrong way. The people were nice but what they did - it was just - it was just not for me.”

“Not for you? That’s one way of putting it. We both know what Demographics really is.”

He squirms a little at the censure in her voice. “They made me feel useful, like I still had worth.” he says a little shamefacedly. 

Her expression softened and he felt her hand on his. 

“And as for Sherlock’s rant, maybe a little." 

"So you're coming back to NYPD?"

He looks at her, amused. "Is that hope I hear in your voice?"

"You know you're the best detective there. Don't make me stroke your ego." She flashes a smile at him. "But your arm? And Sherlock?"

Marcus stretches his legs out. "Sherlock is an arrogant, selfish man-child. Thankfully I’m not so I’ll figure out how to work with him. There’s always you. As for my arm, I'll give it a bit more time."

"And if -"

"And if it doesn't get better? I - I really don't know," he says on a sigh, the surge of pleasure he'd felt when he opened the door to Joan fading rapidly. “Perhaps, I might go back to school. Maybe I’ll join another department. Maybe I’ll carve out a whole new career. I figure I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

The commentator roars in the background. Someone has won the game and Marcus has most definitely lost $10.

“I don’t suppose you want some pizza?” Joan suddenly changes the subject. “I dumped my date before dinner was served.”

Tossing Joan the phone, Marcus grins. “Help yourself. Try that new one on the corner. Then you can tell me all about your aborted date.”

Alcohol gives everything a warm, fuzzy edge and he’s feeling particularly mellow. Joan is explaining in great detail how she realised Paul, her date, wasn’t really the hot-shot lawyer he claimed he was.

“The fact that he described his balding head as a 'thick, dark mane' was my first warning.”

“Very astute of you.”

She lifts her glass of wine and quirks a smile. “Maybe you’re right. I should check my brains at the door before I go on a date.”

“You don’t want someone who doesn’t appreciate your brains,” Marcus says, ignoring that voice that reminds him he appreciates her smarts.

“True. I don’t even know what I’m doing. The last guy I actually liked turned out to be married!” Joan sips at her wine. “I just thought Emily had a point. And I thought dating would give me a life separate from Sherlock.”

“Everyone needs a life separate from Sherlock. What about a hobby? Something that doesn’t involve blowing up dolls or memorising the migration patterns of birds?”

Her laugh is a caress on his skin. Joan isn’t one for large expressions of emotions so to see her like this, relaxed on his sofa, laughing out loud, it makes him happy. He’s not even sure why. But she laughs again and Marcus stops wondering why.


	5. Chapter 5

_The one time she doesn’t_

Emily and Karen are both standing at the bar, laughing at something that the pretty cute bartender is saying. Shifting her bag on her shoulder, Joan threads her way through the crowd, occasionally apologising to the various people she shoves, or shove her. Friday nights are the worst.

“It’s the elusive Joan!” Karen yells over the booming music, slinging an arm tightly around Joan’s shoulder, steering her towards the bar. “Look who I found!”

“Hey Joan. Glad you made it,” Emily hands her a beer. “I almost expected a call cancelling.”

“I can’t stay long. I’m going out for dinner.” Joan smiles at her friends. “Where’s Chelsea?”

Karen shrugs, downs whatever is left in her glass before pushing it to the bartender. “We’re on a break. You know how it is.”

“More importantly,” Emily interrupts, “who are you having dinner with? Not that dude with the pornstache?”

Immediately Karen perks up. “What dude with the pornstache? How did I not know this?”

“Shut up,” says Joan as she smacks Emily on the arm. “There’s no dude with a pornstache. That was purely a one night stand.”

“Good decision. Is it some guy from True Romantix?”

“Oh my god,” exclaims Karen, “you really did get her a membership? Brilliant.”

“Can we talk about something else? How’s your family Emily?”

Emily laughs and wags a finger at Joan. “Nope. No changing the subject. What’s his name?”

“Clyde,” says Joan dryly.

“You’re hilarious Joan. Don’t change careers.” Karen waves at the bartender for another drink.

“Have you two eaten?” Joan reaches over and intercepts Karen’s drink. “You’ve already had two drinks in the brief time I’ve been here.”

“Joan,” Emily and Karen groan simultaneously as Emily frees Karen’s drink from Joan’s hands.

“I’ll look after her,” promises Emily. They’ve been friends long enough for Joan to read the hidden message in Emily’s eyes. The break up must have been a bad one. 

“You know what, I can cancel my dinner. We haven’t spent enough time together.” Her phone is already out of her pocket but Karen’s wraps her hand around it.

“I’ve a better idea. Tell him to join us.”

“What – no! Look, I’ll just step out –“

Emily is shaking her head. “Don’t listen to Karen. You go for your dinner, have a nice time with him, then call us tomorrow. We can have dinner then.”

Joan thinks about how she told Sherlock that she would be free for more safe-cracking lessons. Then she thinks of a conversation about friends she had last night. “Dinner is good.”

“Great. And don’t look now, but a really gorgeous guy is walking towards us.”

Joan turns, of course, and their eyes meet. She matches his slow smile with one of her own.

“Hey,” Marcus leans over and brushes his lips across Joan’s cheek. She can feel her skin heat up in the wake of his lips. “You must be Joan’s friends. I’m Marcus Bell.”

Emily’s smile is tight and she steps in between Joan and Marcus. “Emily – Joan’s oldest friend.”

Joan isn’t sure to be touched or annoyed by Emily’s show of protectiveness but Marcus is already shaking Emily’s hand and nodding at Karen. 

With narrowed eyes, and a slight slur, Karen waves her now empty glass at Marcus. “You’re the detective guy.”

His smile is wide. “I am the detective guy.” Joan knows he’s smiling not just because it’s clear she’s spoken about him before, but because his last visit to the specialist more or less confirmed that he is going to be ‘the detective guy’ for some time to come.

“So,” says Karen. “Are you two dating? In a relationship? Joan is always so coy about such stuff.”

“Good question, Karen,” says Emily encouragingly. “Joan isn’t the best at relationships. Be gentle with her.”

From the corner of her eye, she can see Marcus’s surprise. Joan throws her hands up, a mix of irritation and amusement in her. “Ok, that’s enough mocking Joan’s dating life right now. Shall we go?”

“Sure,” Marcus steps aside, allowing her to walk in front. “Nice meeting you all.”

“Nice meeting you too! Call us, Joan. We want details.”

The cool evening breeze is a welcome change from the hot, heavy air in the pub. Joan sucks in a breath as Marcus helps her with her coat.

“Nice friends,” he says blandly and she rewards him with a look. That only makes him grin. “They clearly care about you.”

“Emily is the one who bought me the True Romantix membership.”

“I like Karen more.” As they walk, Marcus takes her hand, his warm fingers loosely entwined with hers. It’s comforting and she likes it. Karen’s questions float into her mind. Neither she nor Marcus have ever talked about what they are. The brief kisses, the hand holding – they all just evolved somehow.

A beep and Joan withdraws her hand to dig out her phone. 

_He looks very young. Be careful._

She silences her phone and drops it into her bag. Marcus looks at her curiously. “They are being nosey.” Then she sighs. “What are we doing?”

“Walking to Freddy’s for dinner.” He glances at his watch. “And we should hurry. Our reservations is at 8:30pm.”

“Marcus, seriously. What are we doing? Are we dating? Going out as friends?” She stops walking and wraps her arms around herself.

“I like being with you, Joan.”

His eyes are shadowed in the darkness, the street lights only casting shadows across his face. But she doesn’t need to see his eyes to hear the sincerity in his tone. 

“I like being with you too.”

When she turns, Marcus is standing really close to her. His thumb rubs her cheek. “Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

She nods, her lips suddenly dry. Her heart is beating so loudly, it’s all she can hear.

“I’m going to kiss you. That probably means we are dating.” His thumb is still rubbing circles on her cheek.

“I think that’s a brilliant idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who read this fic, thank you. I probably didn't do justice to these two great characters (my favourite from the show) but I had great fun writing them.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this premise is one probably written by many in the aftermath of 2x10 (and probably better than this) but (a) this is more fun than writing meta and (b) I really wanted to write a Joan/Marcus fic from ages ago so. My knowledge of Chinese herbs and soups is sketchy at best, informed mainly by mother who delights in making me drink various tonic soup that will either cool or heat me. :)


End file.
